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“Okay, but like. Respectfully. Can you two stop being gross for five minutes?”
Gyuvin’s voice cracks from the couch, face buried under a pillow.
“We’re just sitting,” Hao blinks, all faux innocence.
“You’re sitting on him,” Gunwook deadpans. “Feeding him grapes soaked in your spit. Calling him aegi.”
“So?” Hao hums, straddled over Hanbin’s lap, one arm draped lazily around his neck, kissing a grape before slipping it between Hanbin’s lips.
“Hanbinnie is my aegi,” he murmurs, cupping Hanbin’s cheeks like they’re porcelain, pressing kisses into both dimples. Hanbin gazes up, dazed with love.
“I just want my peace,” Rui groans into his palms.
“Peace is overrated,” Hanbin says, voice thick with adoration. He tucks a blanket around Hao’s shoulders, then slides his hands beneath Hao’s shirt, palms warm and reverent on bare skin.
Ricky groans. “You guys are like a K-drama, but I can’t even skip the romantic scenes.”
“I wish I could go blind,” Keita mutters.
Hanbin brushes Hao’s bottom lip with his index finger. Hao pouts. Hanbin kisses it away without even thinking.
They don’t hear the complaints.
The next day feels wrong.
No lap-sitting. No whispered jokes. No thigh-tracing fingers.
Hao walks in alone. Earphones in, jaw tight. Hanbin follows, slow, quiet, eyes on the floor. They sit on opposite ends of the couch like strangers.
“Are you guys fighting?” Gyuvin asks cautiously.
Silence.
“Everything okay?” Rui tries.
Hao shrugs, eyes locked on his phone. “Yeah. All good.”
Hanbin doesn’t look up. “We’re just… not together anymore.”
The room goes silent.
“What?!” Gyuvin nearly shrieks. Matthew drops his chopsticks. Keita stares.
It was Hao’s idea—a fake breakup. Just a prank. Give their friends the “peace” they begged for.
It starts off funny. But Hanbin’s too good at pretending. No glances. No secret smiles. Hao starts to feel sick.
Then Gyuvin breaks. Curled up on the floor, sobbing.
Ricky panics, pulling him in. “What’s wrong?”
“Please,” Gyuvin sniffles, clutching Ricky’s hands. “You have to get back together. It hurts. I don’t like this dorm anymore.”
Gunwook wipes his eyes. Keita sniffles. Matthew looks genuinely distressed.
“I miss the PDA,” Rui mumbles.
“I actually liked it when hyung called you aegi,” Matthew whispers to Hanbin, voice cracking.
Hanbin looks up, unreadable. “We just weren’t meant to be.”
No one notices—but he does. The way Hao’s expression shatters for half a second.
He stands and walks out.
Hanbin’s heart stumbles.
Hao’s the worse actor out of the two of them. That crack wasn’t fake.
This whole thing was Hao’s idea. And Hanbin, trying to make it real for him, had gone too far.
He always did, for Hao.
He finds him at their special place, curled, wedged between the wall and the humming washer. Hoodie over his head. Face in his knees.
“Gege?” Hanbin’s voice breaks. He closes the door softly.
Hao looks up, cheeks blotchy. Eyes red. “Go away.”
But Hanbin kneels in front of him anyway. “I’m sorry,” he breathes.
“You said I’m not your soulmate.”
“No—no. Of course you are.” His hands tremble as he reaches. “I didn’t mean it.”
“You sounded like you did.”
Hanbin cups Hao’s cheek, gentle, reverent. “You’re my everything. My princess. I would never mean that.”
Hao turns his face away.
So Hanbin folds himself around him, molding to his body like armor. He kisses his temple. His cheek. His hair.
“Please forgive me.”
“I hate you,” Hao whispers, voice thick with tears.
Hanbin kisses his forehead. “I love you.”
Under his eye. “I love you.”
The corner of his mouth. “I’m sorry.”
Then, finally—his lips. Soft. Slow. Desperate.
“I love you.”
Hao grabs his shirt, fists it tight. “Don’t ever say something like that again.”
“I won’t. I swear. You’re mine. Soulmate. Princess. Forever.”
“As I should be.”
Hanbin kisses him deeper. Pulls him into his lap. Their mouths move slow and hungry, like they’re trying to unmake the last two days. Hao melts against him—hips snug, thighs parted, breath mingling.
Hanbin’s hands find bare skin under Hao’s hoodie, fingers splaying against the soft curve of his waist, then sliding higher, thumbs grazing ribs with aching reverence. Hao shivers in his arms, not from cold, but from the sheer tenderness in every touch.
He presses kisses down Hao’s neck, each one deliberate, worshipful, as though mapping constellations across skin he already knows by heart. Hao gasps softly, fingers threading into Hanbin’s hair, anchoring them in a rhythm only they understand.
“I missed you,” Hao breathes into his ear, voice trembling.
“I missed you more,” Hanbin murmurs, mouth brushing the shell of Hao’s ear. “So—so much.”
Then he kisses him again, longer, deeper, until the world outside the laundry room disappears. Just mouths and hands, soft moans swallowed between kisses, bodies pressing closer until the space between them becomes nothing at all.
Hanbin traces slow circles into Hao’s lower back, hips gently rolling. Hao arches into it, breath stuttering, lips parting for more. Every movement feels like a promise—slow, sacred, a vow written in warmth and want.
Then—
Creak.
The door swings open.
Ricky stares. Mouth open. Eyes wide.
“…Everyone out there is sobbing because of you two—and you’re in here—grinding?”
Hao blinks. Hanbin’s lips are still on his jaw.
“Were you even really broken up?”
Silence.
“I almost cried,” Ricky chokes, backing out. “I can’t believe I almost wasted a tear on this.”
The door slams shut.
Hanbin groans and lets his head fall to Hao’s neck. “We have only minutes before they all barge in and kill both of us.”
“Yup,” Hao mutters, nestling closer, breath hitching with laughter. “So, let’s make the most of it.”
Then they grind for real this time, in slow, heated circles. The air is thick with breathless laughter and muffled moans as their tongues meet again and again, hungry and sweet. Then—
“HANBIN HYUNG!!” Gyuvin’s voice echoes down the hall.
They freeze, lips still tingling, before bursting into giggles against each other’s mouths.